


Loosen First the Sword

by kenzimone



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Episode Fix-it, Episode: s05e08 Coda, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenzimone/pseuds/kenzimone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't know shit about Noah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loosen First the Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Implied Daryl/Beth. Stage four in my random flop through the five stages of grief post-5x08: anger! Title taken from _Justice_ by Rudyard Kipling.

They don't have much use for him. Not really. He does the laundry, irons scrubs and uniforms, mops the hallways and changes the linens on the beds. Chips away at his debt, breaking off tiny shards of rock in an attempt to fell a mountain, and he doesn't even know how much it is he owes.

In the beginning he used to talk to himself. They leave him alone for the most part, and he used to tell himself stories, memories from Before, used to sing, trying to remember the words to his favorite songs.

Nowadays he mostly thinks.

Thinks about the patients in the beds, blissfully unaware, imagines the debts they're piling up simply by lying there. Thinks about leaving, about pushing Gorman down the elevator shaft and jumping in after him.

Thinks about his dad, the look on his face when Dawn leaned down and told him they could only take one. How _grateful_ he had looked, how he'd gasped for breath, blood tinting his lips, and told Noah to go. To be safe.

Dawn had explained it to him later, after he'd been treated. Limited resources, she'd said, but he'd figured it out. He's smart, smarter than she thinks. Stronger, too. They don't know shit about him.

So he entertains the idea – who wouldn't? – but for a long time that's really all it remains, a vague desire that makes his palms sweat and his heart beat faster.

And then Beth arrives.

It's not until he sees his dad again that he knows for sure. It's not really him but it could've been – same large frame, same strong hands, and it might as well have been him – discarded like trash and left to rot down there in the dark.

Noah crawls over the bodies, feels blood and bile soak through the knees of his scrubs, and every time Beth sweeps the beam of the flashlight over that one corner of the elevator car he catches a glimpse of his dad's face, bloated and discolored and half decomposed – no need to use his imagination at all – and that's when he knows he has to do it. Can't live with himself if he doesn't.

Now he just has to figure out _how_.

...

He'd needed the weapons. He doesn't regret doing it because they had seemed tough, like they'd manage without them, and he'd been right about that.

The man – rough looking redneck, _survivor_ written all over him – wanted to leave him to die. Lit a smoke and stood there, watching the Rotter's snapping jaws inch closer and closer to Noah's face.

He'd cried then, told them he was sorry and begged them for help, and the woman had taken pity on him.

He thinks it might haven gotten worse out here. There are more Rotters than he'd expected, roaming the streets, trapped in the buildings, lurking behind doors and blind corners. He can't do this without weapons, is back at square one now, and in the back of his mind the thought's brewing that maybe he can't do it alone at all.

The gunshot's bound to draw attention and he looks out the window, tries to figure out how long he's got before they decide to send out a cruiser. He finds himself rambling, about the hospital and about having to run, doesn't even know what it is he said but suddenly the redneck's all up in his face, grabbing for his shirt. Noah tries to pull away, but the man won't have it, his voice bordering on desperate:

“Wait, wait, wait, just tell us— Is there a blonde girl there? _You see a blonde girl?_ ”

“Beth?” Noah blurts out, incredulous. “You know her?”

The look on the man's face is a revelation.

...

Lamson runs and the guy in charge – Rick – takes off after him while Tyreese tends to his sister. Daryl makes Licari and Shepherd kneel on the floor in front of him and Noah's left hovering in the background, awkwardly gripping the rifle Sasha had thrust at him earlier.

“Should we go help him?” he asks, hearing the car engine roar to life outside.

“Nah,” Daryl says. “Rick'll manage.”

He's lit another smoke, gone through half a pack already. Noah watches him flick ashes onto the concrete floor, wondering if it's nerves or boredom that has him smoking like a chimney, or if he's just catching up on a bad habit from days gone by.

“She look alright to you?” Daryl asks, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Beth?”

“Uh, yeah. She hurt her wrist and she's got a few stitches. But she's okay, last time I saw her at least.” Noah watches the way Daryl's jaw clenches as he listens, the way his grip tightens on his crossbow. “Are you her, uh, dad or something?” he asks.

The withering glare he gets in reply makes him wish he hadn't. He looks away as Daryl snorts in disgust and shakes his head, flipping his cigarette onto the ground. He leaves it there to burn itself out, wisps of smoke rising into the air, curling over itself like dead, gray fingers.

It doesn't take long for Rick to return, alone. It's a setback, but the plan doesn't change. Noah's palms are slick, the rifle heaving in his hands; he hasn't had much practice with them, and he's beginning to feel it.

Rick and Tyreese help Licari and Shepherd back up on their feet, and Daryl shoulders his crossbow, reaching for the bag of weapons they brought with them from the church. He pulls a handgun out and grabs the rifle from Noah, shoves the gun at him instead.

“Here,” he says. “'S loaded.”

Noah wraps his fingers around its grip, feels the weight of it in his hand. It's a Smith & Wesson, like the one his dad used to own. He took Noah shooting a couple of times, Before.

Noah looks up, catches Rick's gaze.

“I need to talk to you,” he says.

...

“Now I just need Noah,” Dawn says. “And then you can leave.”

It doesn't surprise him. Even when the officers behind her exchange disbelieving glances, Noah saw it coming a mile away. He was her ward; he knows her better than almost anyone. He steels himself as Rick refuses, as Shepherd tries to talk Dawn out of it only to get shot down.

“It's okay.” He takes a step forward.

“No,” Rick says. “No.”

“I got to do it.” Somewhere behind him Noah can hear Beth's voice cry out in protest.

“It's settled,” Dawn says.

“Wait!”

Noah turns to see Beth headed towards him. She looks determined – he can see it in the steel of her gaze, the clenching of her jaw – and he doesn't like it, knows her well enough to know that she's not about to just let this exchange happen.

She reaches up to hug him and he lets her, wonders if she can feel the beating of his heart – _so fast_ – or the tension running through his body.

“It's okay,” he says. “I got this.”

She pulls back to look at him, reluctantly loosening her grip and letting her hands fall down his back as she steps away. Her fingertips brush against the gun, the one he tucked into the back of his pants earlier as Licari and Shepherd watched, and her eyes widen.

“It's okay, Beth,” he says.

She studies his face and seems to find whatever it is she's looking for, because she glances down at her cast, then back up at him, and nods.

“Alright,” she says, taking a full step back. “Alright.”

Daryl moves forward then, coming up from behind Rick to grab her by the arm. He pulls her back toward him and she goes willingly, doesn't protest when he pushes her behind him, her hand trailing down his arm to grip his wrist and giving it a soft squeeze.

Rick nods twice, first at Dawn and then at Noah, before signaling to his people to fall back.

Noah watches them leave. Daryl's got Beth just about tucked against his side as they walk away, his hand splayed across the small of her back. She's gripping his shirt in return, and there's a familiarity there, a sense of belonging and intimacy that makes Noah's chest ache. She turns to look at him over her shoulder, sending him one last glance, and he meets her gaze and holds it until she disappears behind the first set of double doors.

Bello and Tanaka are busy helping Licari and Shepherd out of their restraints while the rest of the officers mill around, finally relaxing as the unwelcome visitors exit the floor. Dawn's shaking her head, hands on her hips.

“Licari. Shepherd. I'll see you in my office later,” she says, and gets a chorus of 'yes ma'am' in response. “Now get back to work, all of you.”

The officers disperse, Licari among the first to leave, but Shepherd lingers. She rubs at her wrists, ignoring Dawn's glare, and Noah's heart leaps into his throat because he remembers her watching him, kneeling on the floor of the abandoned building, her hands bound behind her back. Remembers her eyes on him as he checked the safety on the gun, hefted it in his hand to get a sense of its weight and tucked it down the back of his pants and pulled his shirt down to cover it.

He swallows, and Shepherd smiles at him, a small twitch of her mouth.

“It's good to have you back, Noah,” she says.

And then she turns and walks away, and Noah's left with the roaring of his pulse beating in his ears as Dawn looks him over, her lips pursed. He slouches his shoulders and lowers his gaze to his shoes, trying to project what it is she expects to find, because he knows what she sees in him. A scared kid who escaped but came crawling back, just like she knew he would, but she's wrong. She doesn't know him just like she didn't know Beth, who turned out to be stronger than any of them realized.

“I knew you'd be back,” Dawn says, breaking the silence. “God, Noah, what were you _thinking_? How _stupid_ could you get, pulling a stunt like that?”

He shrugs, and doesn't have to see it to know the look of disgust currently playing on her face.

“My office. Ten minutes,” she says. “You know I can't let this slide.”

He nods and she shakes her head and turns her back on him, prepared to walk away, prepared to leave him standing in the hallway alone because he'd never try to run again, wouldn't have the guts, not after seeing what's out there, after experiencing it firsthand.

It used to eat at him, the way she underestimated him. Probably still would if it hadn't played to his advantage, if she hadn't thought him so useless that she didn't even bother having anyone frisk him before declaring him returned back into her fold.

He reaches behind him, wraps his fingers around the grip of the gun. Pulls it out.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey, Dawn!”

 


End file.
